


Step a Little Closer

by Mackaley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Facials, Finger Sucking, Hair-pulling, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Sloppy Makeouts, Smut, Swordfighting, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27161342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackaley/pseuds/Mackaley
Summary: “A duel,” Aziraphale blurts out. Crowley lifts an eyebrow and Aziraphale clarifies. “We should have a duel. Heaven and Hell never actually got their war, but well. With the uniform. We could pretend, determine who would have been the victor if it came to blows?”-----Crowley finds an old uniform and Aziraphale decides to relieve some tension by using swordplay as foreplay, obviously.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 222





	Step a Little Closer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chamyl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHAM!!! I am so, so thankful to Good Omens for bringing you into my life. You are a perfect ray of Italian sunshine and I love you!!! I hope I did this justice given how absolutely on point your birthday fic to me was. 
> 
> Also thank you so much to entanglednow for the beta ❤️

There’s a room in Crowley’s flat that Aziraphale has never seen until today.

“Well, I say _room_ ,” Crowley had said over the phone earlier that morning. “S’more of a transdimensional space that comes along from place to place. The point is, it’s getting unstable and I haven’t gone through it in centuries. Figured we could make a date out of it. Some wine, good conversation, and a little bit of spring cleaning.”

“I do believe spring cleaning is supposed to happen in the _spring_ , Crowley,” he'd admonished. “It’s October.”

“Eh, spring, autumn. Not much difference when you think about it. What d’you say? I’ll take you out to dinner, wherever you want to go, when we’re done.”

And well, it wasn’t like he was really going to say _no_ , but the offer of dinner didn’t hurt.

Aziraphale rests against the heavy, intricately-carved cupboard he’s just pushed out of the storage room and catches his breath, pulls a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and dabs gently at the non-existent sweat on his face. 

“Crowley, how is it possible to have so much in storage when you have historically owned so very little?” he calls out.

“Very little builds up over six thousand years,” Crowley calls back, his voice muffled through the sheer amount of clutter remaining. “Found something I think you’ll like, give me a mo’.”

It only takes the soft shuffling of fabric, a small crash, and a not-so-quiet string of curses before Crowley steps out in front of him, with his arms held wide and a grin on his face, and Aziraphale’s mouth goes dry.

Crowley is wearing what appears to be a military uniform, although from no country or era that Aziraphale can place through his daze. The dark charcoal fabric looks soft, though the lines of it are sharp. The wide shoulders taper off as it moves down Crowley’s torso, emphasizing his narrow waist and hips. There’s red piping, too, that lines the edges along the front flap of the jacket and gleaming silver buttons are set down one side. The trousers are cut impeccably. Not as slim as Crowley’s usual fare, but still tight enough to really draw attention to anything that needs attention.

Aziraphale wants to shove him up against a wall.

He realizes he’s been staring when Crowley’s hand waves in front of his face. His head snaps up to meet Crowley’s gaze and he’s annoyed at the smug smirk on the demon’s face. He refuses to give him the satisfaction and clears his throat.

“Well, it certainly is something. What era is this from? I’m afraid I don’t recognize it.”

Crowley tugs at the hem of the jacket and looks himself over. “It’s not actually--I mean, I designed it sometime in the nineteenth century, but--”

“ _You_ designed it?” He can’t stop running his eyes over the uniform, noticing new details every time he does. The horizontal neck rests just above his collarbones, the ends of Crowley’s hair skirting the collar, and he wants to pull it down, suck bruises into the skin there. 

Crowley waves his hand dismissively. “Downstairs insisted on uniforms for Armageddon, whenever it came along, decided to crowdsource design. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a hoard of demons trying to collaborate on a single idea, but--well, you can imagine. Dagon nearly burned the whole place down three months in and it was scrapped. Guess I ended up keeping mine.”

Crowley smooths his hands down his torso and Aziraphale bites back a whimper as they come to rest at his hips, drawing his attention again to the perfectly-tailored trousers. 

“Don’t you like it, Aziraphale? I think I look rather dashing.” The grin on Crowley’s face is _infuriating_ and Aziraphale is tempted to slap it off. 

“A duel,” Aziraphale blurts out. Crowley lifts an eyebrow and Aziraphale clarifies. “We should have a duel. Heaven and Hell never actually got their war, but well. With the uniform. We could pretend, determine who would have been the victor if it came to blows?”

Crowley’s smile turns hungry and predatory. “Could be interesting. And what does the winner get?”

“ _I_ will decide when I win. Now, let’s say best two out of three? And we should probably move into the other room - this one is littered with your detritus.”

Crowley nods and stalks into the empty adjoining room. “Weapons?” he calls over his shoulder. 

Aziraphale ponders as he follows. “I think rapiers should suffice, don't you?” 

Crowley turns to face him and lifts his arms to thread his hair through the hair tie on his wrist. “Dunno. You think you can beat me with a weapon that requires dexterity over brute strength?”

The fabric of Crowley’s uniform shifts and pulls taut over the wiry muscle of his arms. Aziraphale resists the urge to march over to the demon and rip the jacket off, sink his teeth into his shoulder. He rolls his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, his coat long forgotten an hour into their cleaning, and a thrill runs through him when he sees Crowley track his every movement as each new inch of forearm is bared. 

Crowley's arms hang in the air, his hands still holding his half-formed ponytail loosely, when Aziraphale walks over to him and gives a smug smile. 

“Dear boy, I think you know I'm quite skilled in handling a sword,” he says. He pats Crowley's cheek firmly and Crowley’s mouth falls open. He takes several steps back, a satisfied smirk on his face as Crowley hastily finishes tying up his hair, and he conjures two rapiers. He tosses one to Crowley and gives a few exploratory swings of his own. 

He adjusts his grip, his arm and wrist accommodating the weight. It's been awhile since he’s held a rapier, but it feels natural to fall back into the stance as he holds the sword aloft. He shifts into the familiar position, weight leaning forward on his right foot as he extends the sword in his right hand, his left knee bent and ready to step back at a moment’s notice. His left arm bends and his hand hovers close, just near his waist. 

Crowley gets into position as well, his stance held wider than Aziraphale’s as he lifts his non-dominant arm up to shoulder height. He gives a few more swishes and eyes the rapier before extending the blade and crossing the top with Aziraphale’s. He flashes a grin. 

“Ready?”

Aziraphale studies every inch of Crowley’s body, sees every muscle tense with potential energy like he's coiling to strike the second they begin. He takes a short breath, steadies his wrist, and prepares to jump back. 

“Ready.”

Crowley is still for only a moment before he lunges forward as predicted, knocking Aziraphale’s blade out of the way and aiming for his chest. Aziraphale leaps backward out of the sword’s reach and quickly regains form as he advances on Crowley, determined to take advantage of his wider, unguarded stance. 

They circle each other slowly, sidestepping and trading small, jerking movements forward. Aziraphale’s heartbeat thunders through him, every pulse sharpening his focus as he studies Crowley, the long, predatory lines of him, for anything that telegraphs his movements. 

Finally, after what seems like minutes of aborted blows, he spots Crowley’s extended left hand begin to move backwards, a counterweight to the imminent lunge forward with the rapier. He dashes out of the way, only to twist in confusion as Crowley’s weapon makes contact with his thigh. His mouth falls open in surprise as he looks at the blunted tip digging into his trousers before it’s swept away and Crowley lets out a victory whoop.

“Point to me!” he exclaims. Aziraphale huffs and gets back into his starting position as Crowley gloats.

“You see, Aziraphale, it’s all about _knowing_ your sparring partner. Their habits, their patterns. It’s about knowing every _inch_ of their body. _Intimately_. So you can read it like a _book_.”

Crowley’s gaze drifts pointedly down Aziraphale’s body before he looks at Aziraphale through his eyelashes, a sharp-toothed grin ever-present on his face. Aziraphale knows what Crowley's trying to do, and he refuses to let it work. Something as simple as _arousal_ will not distract him from the task at hand: beating Crowley no matter the cost.

The fact that Crowley looks so becoming in his uniform is just a bonus, really.

“I don’t remember there being this much talking while dueling, Crowley.” He tightens his stance and quickly scans over Crowley to form his plan of attack. His partner seems looser, less careful in his body language after the previous round’s victory, and he knows Crowley’s first win will cost him the next. 

“Must’ve been dueling wrong. Talking shit to get into your opponent’s head is the best part.” 

They touch the points of their swords together and begin the dance back and forth once again. Quick, halted jabs are followed by pregnant pauses and long lunges back and forth. Crowley laughs as Aziraphale’s thrust very nearly misses his narrow frame.

“Don’t feel bad, angel. Like I said, we both know dexterity’s my strong suit over yours. If this was a different kind of fight, I’m sure you’d have me pinned in an instant.”

Aziraphale remains silent, his eyes trained on Crowley’s elbows, on his hips, anything to anticipate his next move. He will not let Crowley’s words goad him into a mistake.

Crowley gives him an exaggerated pout. “Come on, it’s no fun when you don’t banter back. Call me a wicked fiend or something. I thought we were going to play up the whole Heaven and Hell thing.”

If Crowley really wants to play this game, Aziraphale will fight back too. He steps carefully to the side and slowly extends his weapon to tap it against the side of Crowley’s, rests it there as the air in the room grows heavier.

“Now, darling. Some of us are just trying to have a fair match without incessant blathering on.” Crowley’s body is too relaxed, so Aziraphale chances a look to his eyes. “Not all of us need to _tease_ \--” He slowly moves his blade along Crowley’s, the metallic drag resonating in the sudden silence. “--to win.”

Crowley gulps and his eyes flicker down Aziraphale’s body in distraction for only a moment, but Aziraphale is ready for the opening. He leaps forward and the rapier makes contact with Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley gapes and Aziraphale steps back with a satisfied smile.

“What was that about knowing your partner intimately? Excellent advice, Crowley. It seems we’re tied, one-to-one.”

Crowley’s eyes flash dark and his lips curl. He settles quickly back into position and knocks his rapier insistently against Aziraphale’s.

“All right, enough of this. Final round. Come on, get your sword up.” 

Aziraphale just raises a solitary eyebrow at the innuendo before lifting his weapon and giving Crowley’s a quick, gentle tap.

The final round is quicker, less cautious than the previous ones. They both continually leap forward and back, each moving aggressively as they try to take the final point. Aziraphale lunges for Crowley’s knees and Crowley dives out of the way, taking a swipe at Aziraphale’s ankles as he goes. Aziraphale darts back and then thrusts low to Crowley’s prone form on the ground. Crowley scrambles away and Aziraphale nearly falls forward. They quickly right themselves and get in position before it all starts again.

For a brief moment they pause and make eye contact. And then, simultaneously, they start laughing joyfully. With each trade of blows and near hits, the eager laughter continues at this familiar back and forth they’ve found.

It is _exhilarating._

Finally, Aziraphale sees his opportunity and he pushes forward forcibly, each swipe met with increasingly frantic blocks from Crowley until Aziraphale throws decorum to the wind and slams him up against the wall, his left hand pinning Crowley’s weapon arm, his own sword coming to rest at Crowley’s throat. Crowley’s pulse flutters visibly under the blade and it’s like the floodgates of Aziraphale’s half-forgotten arousal open and it crashes back through him.

Crowley’s eyes grow wide and dart back and forth as he struggles against the strong grip holding him in place. Aziraphale tuts dismissively.

“Now, I don’t think that’s necessary.” 

He steps impossibly closer and squeezes Crowley’s right arm until the demon’s grip loosens and his rapier clatters to the ground. Crowley’s cock feels like an iron rod against him and it takes everything in his power to hold back, to have Crowley desperate and begging before he strikes.

His left hand comes up to grab at Crowley’s chin with a firm grip. He turns Crowley’s head sharply as he admires the flush painted across his cut-glass cheekbones, the yellow of his eyes fully filled out.

“Pretty thing, aren’t you?” he says in a low voice. A groan escapes the back of Crowley’s throat, and Aziraphale can feel it vibrate through his firm grip on the blunt sword digging into his neck. 

He admires Crowley for only a moment more before he loosens his grip on Crowley’s chin and trails his hand down his chest. The fabric is as soft as it appears, his fingers gliding down, down, smoothing over the red piping and teasing at the long row of silver buttons. His hand moves down further, past the hem of the perfectly-tailored jacket until he cups Crowley’s erection, palms over the bulge and squeezes his shaft. The heat radiating from him is scorching and Aziraphale doesn’t know if it’s his or Crowley’s heartbeat that he can feel as he strokes his cock through the fabric.

“Now, I believe I did mention that I would decide on my prize after I won.” His palm moves up and down slowly, just enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. “What shall I do with you?”

Soft, desperate sounds fall from Crowley’s lips as Aziraphale continues his glacial movements on his shaft. He pretends to be deep in thought, pondering his options, and the puffs of air across his cheeks quicken as Crowley becomes more desperate. He waits, and waits, and the seconds tick by until Crowley finally keens and tries to roll his hips into Aziraphale’s grasp.

Aziraphale suddenly stops and grips his cock firmly, pushes the sword harder against his throat and Crowley gasps out.

“Fuck, shit, Aziraphale. Anything. Do anything to me, but do it _now_.”

Every cell in his body thrums with tension as he moves minutely closer to Crowley. The demon’s nose is an inch away from his own and he pauses, waits, just to see Crowley squirm more. 

All it takes is Crowley licking his lips and exhaling a strangled “angel” for Aziraphale’s composure to break.

He curls his lips in a snarl and tosses the rapier to the side, bunches Crowley’s jacket in both hands, and crashes their lips together. Crowley responds back immediately, enthusiastically, with a high keen as he wraps his arms around Aziraphale and tugs on his short curls and his shoulders. One of the demon’s legs wraps around his waist and Aziraphale growls into the kiss as he lifts Crowley by the thigh and pins him harder against the wall. 

The kiss is desperate and sloppy and Crowley whines and bucks his hips forward as Aziraphale sucks his tongue into his mouth with a rhythm he’s employed so many times on Crowley’s cock. He grips Crowley’s thigh and encourages the roll of Crowley’s hips into his own as they swallow each other’s desperate noises. He raises his hand to rest firmly against Crowley’s cheekbone and settles his thumb at the corner of his mouth. They break apart, panting heavily, and Aziraphale takes the opportunity to slip his thumb into Crowley’s mouth.

An eager tongue swirls around the digit immediately and Crowley looks up through his lashes as he sucks, bobs his head in time with the rut of his hips. He looks so fucking desperate and needy and Aziraphale can hardly think with how much blood has travelled elsewhere. All he knows is the need to wreck, to _claim_ the perfect creature in front of him. A roar of possessiveness rises up within him and he surges forward to kiss him again, thrusting his tongue inside Crowley’s mouth alongside the thumb he hasn’t bothered to remove.

If Crowley is anything other than excited about this new development, he doesn’t show it. He licks between Aziraphale’s thumb and tongue, frenzied in his need to use his mouth to bring Aziraphale pleasure. Suddenly Aziraphale needs to feel Crowley sucking at something other than his thumb.

“Get on your knees,” he gasps against Crowley’s lips. Crowley lets out a hissed agreeance and drops down, his fingers coming up to undo Aziraphale’s fly. Aziraphale stills his hand and then reaches to wrap Crowley’s ponytail several times around his fist, holding the demon’s head at a sharp angle so Crowley has no choice but to look up at him.

Crowley moves his head to test Aziraphale’s hold, but Aziraphale keeps his grip firm. The demon’s eyelids flutter and his shoulders seem to relax as he realizes that Aziraphale is going to take what he wants at his own pace. 

He lowers Crowley’s head until the line of his nose presses firm against the hard ridge of his cock, aching and leaking terribly in his pants. He lets the demon nuzzle at him for a few moments, whispered words of praise falling from his lips, before he holds Crowley still and gives a few experimental thrusts against his face. 

Crowley whimpers and holds himself still as Aziraphale drags his clothed cock up along one side of his nose, along his sharp cheekbones and the hard line of his eyebrow before moving down and giving the other side of his face the same attention. It’s filthy and humiliating and there is rapture on Crowley's face. 

Thin fingers wrap around Aziraphale’s free hand and he pulls Crowley away from his erection with a questioning glance. 

“To the victor go the spoils,” Crowley says, his breath coming in heavy like he’s run a marathon. “Let me spoil you.”

Crowley lifts Aziraphale's hand to his thin lips and presses a quick kiss to his fingertips before sucking his pointer finger into his mouth. 

A zing of electricity shoots up Aziraphale’s spine and his skin feels tight with how aroused he is. Crowley sucks slowly, hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue along the tip, dragging his teeth and tonguing at each knuckle. He gets to the final knuckle and drags his tongue along the skin between his digits. Aziraphale’s finger is slicked with spit as Crowley slides it out and then pushes it back inside his eagerly awaiting mouth again, along with Aziraphale’s middle finger.

He gives this one the same treatment, bobbing his head as he sucks, spit dripping down his chin as his gaze is forced upward by Aziraphale’s tight hold on his hair. Crowley opens his mouth and uses his grip on Aziraphale’s wrist to fellate his fingers along the pad of his tongue.

Crowley has never looked more obscene - lips spit-slick, eyes blown wide, and his cock tenting so obviously in those trousers. He is absolutely perfect.

Aziraphale reluctantly drags his fingers from Crowley’s mouth and nearly comes before he can get his cock out as Crowley holds his mouth open and waiting. He unbuttons his fly with one hand and shoves his trousers and pants down with Crowley’s assistance before kicking them off carelessly to the side. He holds his cock steady and drags the head along Crowley’s bottom lip, smearing his precome like the world’s most vulgar lipstick. 

It’s only when Crowley darts his tongue out to make contact that he can’t resist anymore. He places his hand on Crowley’s cheek and taps his thumb against his cheekbone twice. Crowley nods and Aziraphale pushes in in one quick thrust, moaning deeply as Crowley gags briefly on his cock. 

His hand stays tight in Crowley’s ponytail as he fucks his face mercilessly, the thick coat of saliva already in Crowley’s mouth covering his cock and causing obscene, wet sounds to echo through the air. 

“Look at you, darling,” he pants. Aziraphale pulls his hips back, keeps the head of his cock past Crowley’s lips, and Crowley wraps his long tongue around the head and suckles. Saliva drips down his chin under the attention of his sloppy blowjob and it sends something heated, something possessive straight to Aziraphale’s gut. “Is this my prize? This perfect, sinful mouth sucking me?”

Crowley nods and doubles his efforts, his spit-laden lips trailing messy kisses down his shaft. Aziraphale is mesmerized by the image until he sees Crowley’s shoulder moving frantically and realizes with a start that Crowley has pulled his own cock free haphazardly from his tight uniform trousers and has started working himself.

“Are you touching yourself, Crowley? Naughty boy.” Crowley whines and licks up the underside of Aziraphale’s erection. He slows the movement of his own hand, but Aziraphale grasps his hair reflexively. “I didn’t say to stop. Go on, get your hand as wet as you’ve made my cock.”

His mouth sinks down to the base and Crowley’s sloped nose presses into the underside of his belly. There’s the tell-tale sound of a miracle and then the fast, wet jerking noises beneath him prove that Crowley’s followed his instructions. 

All of the sensations going on around Aziraphale catch up to him quickly and he feels his orgasm is imminent. He honestly doesn’t know how he’s lasted this long after feeling so on the edge since he pinned Crowley to the wall. His hips pump forward and a flush crawls down his skin, following the frisson of arousal that skates through him.

“Going to come, Crowley. Come with me, come with me, come--”

His orgasm slams through him, and he realizes that Crowley has pulled back with a wet pop, a line of spit connecting his lips and Aziraphale’s cock, and Aziraphale is coming on Crowley’s face. Crowley’s eyes are closed, his face screwed up in pleasure as he spills into his own fist, and the white streaks of come painting his face have Aziraphale feeling dizzy. He slaps the palm of his free hand against the wall in front of him to hold himself steady and pants as his orgasm slows and fades.

Crowley’s eyes are still closed when Aziraphale releases his hair from his grip and sinks to his knees, his handkerchief already in his hand, and he wipes Crowley’s face gently. Crowley beams at him lazily.

“Mm, you came on my face.” 

Aziraphale wipes the last bit of come from his chin and kisses him. “I wasn’t anticipating it, but it seems you had other plans.” He tosses the soiled handkerchief aside and sits against the wall, scooping Crowley into his arms. Crowley snuggles close and nuzzles his nose into the soft swell beneath Aziraphale’s chin. 

“If we’d have actually gone to war and I wore this, would you have ravished me on the battlefield?”

Aziraphale hums in contemplation. “Yes, I rather think I would have. Did I ever tell you about Heaven’s uniforms? Beige and tartan things - you would’ve hated them - but they didn’t have trousers. They had kilts. Could’ve just ridden you right there in front of angels and demons alike. Really given them a show before they killed us.”

Crowley pulls back and squares Aziraphale with a hopeful look, and the angel laughs. “We should finish cleaning before it gets too late for dinner.”

Crowley groans as he reluctantly shifts out of Aziraphale’s arms and miracles their clothes back to rights, including trading the uniform for his henley and jeans. He pulls Aziraphale to his feet and Aziraphale places his hands on Crowley’s chest.

“Let’s make a deal, Crowley,” he says conspiratorially. “If we finish cleaning out your storage room in time to make our reservation, I’ll wear whatever skirt or kilt or dress you want and let you have your wicked way with me when we get back.”

An unintelligible sound escapes Crowley’s lips and he sprints towards the storage room, before running back and kissing Aziraphale soundly. Aziraphale laughs as Crowley takes off again, determined to win one victory today.


End file.
